


What Has No Hands but Grips You Tight

by LSPrincess



Series: You're My Medicine [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkwardness, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Dark Edward Nygma, Depression, Drinking, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hallucination Edward Nygma - Freeform, Hallucination Oswald Cobblepot - Freeform, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Poetry, Post Isabella Death, Pre-Slash, Regret, Season/Series 03, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sleep talking, Touch-Starved, but that's always there, discussion of suicide, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSPrincess/pseuds/LSPrincess
Summary: “You’re concerned for me, Oswald. The sentiment is appreciated.”“Of course I’m concerned for you, Ed,” Oswald said, sounding on the verge of offended ... “Because you lost someone, yes, of course — I've lost people, too, Ed — but because you’re havingnightmaresabout them. Because you’re waking upcrying.Because you’re in such a panicked state of unrest that you’re recitingPoein yoursleep.”... “Because you keep one of my highest ABV wines in yournightstand.”





	1. There's a Ghost in the Back of this Room

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for these idiots' ever present sexual tension and some slightly disturbing content in Ed's nightmare sequence. The rating may change when I write the second chapter, who knows

Nightmares were something that Ed was fairly familiar with. That creeping panic when you’re running from something you won’t dare to look at, that heart-stopping jolt as you plummet off a cliff, the absolute devouring pain and heartbreak when you lose someone you love for the _umpteenth_ time. He’d experienced them all, every nightmare in the book, every nondescript cryptic dream that left you waking up feeling sick with unease and confusion — he’d had them all before.

 _Before_ was something Ed wanted to stress with every fibre in his being. He’d had them _before_ he’d grown up, _before_ he’d matured, _before_ he’d stopped being a snivelling, tormented _nobody._ He hadn't had nightmares in far too long of a time for him to be having them again.

And yet, here he was, seizing so intensely that he’d ripped himself from the hellish, blood-chilling confines of his nightmare and gasping so hard it made his lungs ache.

He’d had nightmares before, yes, but none like this one (or at least, none that were voluntarily jumping to the forefronts of his memory at the moment). He’d been having the same nightmare over and over again since he’d lost Isabella, and only now, almost two weeks later, were they actually beginning to affect him emotionally.

There was no distinctly stressful factor to the dreams, just…the feeling. The aura. The dark walls peeling in stained, curling strands of sun-bleached paper, the floorboards moldy and rotting and wet with an unknown substance, and the _panic_ that permeated the air like electricity, prickling at the back of Ed’s neck and coaxing forth his tears with little to no effort.

It was illogical, irrational, and downright _shameful,_ and all Ed could do about it was bolt upright in bed and sob himself into a state that only somewhat resembled serenity.

Only this night, he didn't do that. He didn't launch himself forward with a poorly held back sob and fight the bile that was rising in his throat with whatever ounce of strength he had left. _This_ night, after he’d jerked himself awake so hard the bed shook and he lied there gagging and gasping, he realized with a new rush of terror like white-hot blood through his veins that he couldn't move. That alone, that lack of mobility, of freedom, that feeling of being _controlled_ was enough to make him choke out a broken whine, the sound not unlike that of a wounded dog.

He would have blamed it on sleep paralysis (something he’d _never_ had to deal with before) if it weren't for the fact that he could move his head and individual extremities, kicking his legs and straining his arms against his unknown captor in pitifully fruitless attempts to break free. He could scream for help if he wanted, but he _didn't_ want to, didn't want to seem weaker than he already felt, more helpless than he already knew he was. And helpless as he might have been, he would have kept fighting if he hadn't managed to pick up on a small sound coming from his corner.

In all honesty, he was surprised he could hear it at all through the blood roaring in his ears, but he turned his attention to it anyway, and finally did let out a scream.

Or at least, he _tried_ to.

She was barely even visible, hardly even there, blanketed in thick, viscous shadow and standing ever so still. He could have even convinced himself it was the murky vestiges of sleep still plaguing his already poor vision if it weren't for those two cold, beady eyes staring out at him from beneath the dark, protective shawl of obscurity.

“I-Isabella?”

_“Edward.”_

At that Ed’s breath caught in his throat as if some cold, beastly hand had grabbed it, pulling it down, down, down, back down into his chest where it burned and filled his lungs to the point of bursting, and he wanted to use all of it, all of that pent up oxygen to scream and cry and beg for forgiveness and help, somebody, God, _please help._

All he could manage was a senseless stream of panic-stricken consciousness, words forced out between suffocating sobs.

“N-No, _no,_ let me go, please, p-please Isab—Isabella, I’m s…I’m sorry, I’m so _sorry—”_

 _“I understand your fear,”_ she said, her voice strangely thick and warbling like some distorted recording. _“It comes from a place of love.”_

_No, no, no no no no no nononono—_

_“You’re so sweet,”_ she continued, but the voice was different, more strained and broken and disconcertingly raspy.

And coming from the other corner of his room.

 _“I know you won’t hurt me,”_ Isabella whispered, the tone so loving and trusting even underneath all of the fluctuating octaves and record scratches.

 _“I’m scared,”_ the choked voice whimpered, so gentle it was almost endearing, yet so sharp it made Ed wonder if his ears were going to bleed.

“Of what?” Ed gasped breathlessly, instinctively averting his gaze as his dead girlfriend eased herself out of the shadows, her footfalls silent and nonexistent, a breath in a lifeless vacuum, a lie.

_“Of Tom Dougherty.”_

Ed froze. That was _wrong_ — Isabella had never said that, she had no right to, no _reason_ to, no one knew, no one cared except—

 _“Kristen?”_ he sobbed, his tear-blurred eyes finally noticing the other figure in the corner, eerily still and so hauntingly similar to Isabella in stature and demeanor he almost retched over the side of the bed.

 _“I found old photos in newspapers,”_ Isabella purred, her voice dropping to a bass note Ed could never even dream of hitting before rocketing to an ear-splitting squeak, as deafening as nails on a chalkboard or…train wheels screeching on the tracks, metal shredding metal, blood curdling screams of lifeless machines that were adopting a more and more humane sound to them as they echoed in the back of Ed’s mind.

 _“He used to tell me…if he ever saw me with another man, he would_ kill _me.”_

“No, no, he won’t, he _can’t,_ Kristen, he _can’t—”_

 _“Look at me,”_ the wavering record demanded, the tone so controlling and so, so _terrifying_ that Ed couldn't stop his head from whipping back to the left, his eyes focusing and unfocusing on the mangled, bloody corpse of the woman he once loved.

“O-Oh, _God—”_

 _“I’m terrified of what will happen when he comes back.”_ A mousy whimper.

 _“I am forcing you to face your fear.”_ A deafening, authoritative boom, so powerful it shook the bed, so loud it _hurt._ Oh, God, it _hurt._

_“You would never hurt me—”_

_“You don’t know him, he’s a_ monster.”

_“—even when I look like this.”_

Ed forced his eyes closed to fight the burn and strain of how wide they were stretched, tears mixing with sweat and soaking his face, his mouth gaping in a silent wail.

 _“Everything I ever thought about you, I was right,”_ the raspy squeak snapped, stepping out from the shadows to remain parallel with her twin.

Twins, yes, but not identical — not now. Not now when half of Isabella’s face was shredded to a bloody pulp, her eye a pulverized and unrecognizable reflection of its former self, sparkling and lively in its hazel-green beauty, now swimming in a swollen, purpled socket of blood. Not now when Kristen’s face was a startlingly unhealthy shade of blue, her eyes bloodshot and bulging, her neck marred with the dark impression of a hand, a contusion Ed knew would match up perfectly with his own if he were to check. The sight of it winded him.

 _“I should have my head examined,”_ the spectre of Kristen growled, her voice breaking and her breaths rattling her swollen throat and aching lungs.

 **_“I’d have your neck checked, first,”_ ** another voice added, so close it was as if it was _inside_ of Ed, so similar to his own he was teetering on the edge of terror, yet so dark and sinister it was almost starkly different.

 _“You would never hurt me, even when I look like this,”_ Isabella reiterated, tilting her head to the side and coaxing thick rivulets of blood to pour from her lacerated eye socket, her hesitant smile stretching the taut skin of her face to the point that it creaked like leather, her teeth stained red with blood and rotting in their gums.

 _“You were stalking me —_ _you are a_ psychopath!” Kristen gritted out, the noise too painful to hear.

“No, no, oh _God,_ I’m not…”

_“You would never hurt me—”_

_“You are going to prison—”_

_“—even when I look like this.”_

_“—where they will do horrible things to you.”_

**_“I think prison would have been a mercy, don’t you?”_ ** the other him whispered with a dry chuckle, and Ed could _feel_ him there, feel the weight of his body on the bed, next to him, around him, _in_ him.

 _“You would never_ —”

_“Things you deserve.”_

_“_ — _hurt me_ …”

**_“Did we deserve it, Eddie? The punishment we got?”_ **

_“…when I look like this.”_

“N-No,” Ed said with a sob, not sure what statement he was denying or if the negation was just a reassurance to himself that this couldn't be real.

 _ **“We didn't deserve it?”**_ the other Ed asked with an inflection so innocent and childlike Ed wanted to vomit again.

“Yes,” he sobbed in response, the weight of his other self inside of him so suffocating and disorienting.

 **_“We_ ** **did** **_deserve it?”_ **

_“Yes,”_ Ed hissed, hoping he sounded stronger and more confident than he felt. “We deserved it, and we deserve it again. _Look_ at what we've done!”

The Other hummed thoughtfully, the sound rumbling in Ed’s chest, the feel of another person’s skin against his own, the heat of their body blending with his to make them perfect doubles, those red and blue mirror images just barely overlapping each other to the extent that it was dizzying to look at.

**_“I see two gorgeous women, Eddie.”_ **

“One of which we _killed!”_

**_"And the other?”_ **

Ed swallowed back the sob that threatened to peal through his throat, his body shaking so violently that it felt like a seismic shift in his bones.

“The other…we didn't save.”

_“You would never hurt me, even when I look like this.”_

_“You’re a_ psychopath!”

_“I understand your fear.”_

_“I’m terrified of what will happen when he comes back.”_

_“It comes from a place of love.”_

**_“Fear. That’s all you have_** _—_ ** _that’s all you_** **are.** ** _That’s what got us_** **hurt!”** the Other roared, Kristen and Isabella retreating to their respective corners in choppy, hurried movements, like a video played in reverse, and all that was left was a figure looming over him, so close he couldn't make out the features, but he _knew._ He knew and he wanted to run, but he couldn't because he couldn't move, and he couldn't scream because that was _fear._ He was _afraid._

**_“What has no hands but grips you tight and squeezes out your grit? What whispers warnings in your ear and makes you lose all wit? What has no fangs yet bites down hard and causes valor’s bleed? What makes the indomitable spirit of man concede?”_ **

_“It comes from a place of love.”_

_“I’m scared.” Of what? “Of Tom Dougherty.”_

**_“What has no form yet plagues your dreams at night and robs your sleep? What cannot possess anything yet never stops to reap? What tells you it cannot be done yet can’t bear any weight? What dwells within your ponderings yet cannot contemplate?”_ **

_There was something dripping. He could hear it down the hall. Drip, drip, dripping like a bleeding pig, drip, drip, dripping like a gutted carcass, dripping on the floor,_ ruining _the floor._

 _“I’m terrified of what will happen when he comes back.” You don’t need to worry about that. “You don’t know him, he is a_ monster.”

**_“What is the simplest foe to quell yet costs the highest fare? What tangles men throughout their lives despite its brittle snare? What keeps you on your knees and loyal, captive, victim, slave? What only withdraws its cold grip moments before the grave?”_ **

_Damn that dripping, that hollow pattering against the floor, damn it to hell! Where was it even coming from, that dripping, that pattering, that tap, tap, tapping?_

_You do not need to worry about Tom Dougherty. “You are sweet.”_

**_“What wastes a life and spawns regret and anguish, grief, concern? What stifles your desire all life long, then makes you yearn? What cruel and callous King rules over all the meek and frail? What has no blade but does behead and bludgeon and impale?”_ **

_God_ damn _that dripping, that pattering, that tip-tap-tapping, tap tap tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door._

_“You’re not a fighter, you couldn't possibly take him on.” Trust me, it’s been taken care of._

_Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door — only this, and nothing more._

_“What does that mean?” Some time ago, he and I had an altercation…_

_(Goddamn that infernal tapping! That soft, incessant tapping!)_

_Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow_ _—_ _sorrow for my lost Lenore —_ _for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —_ _nameless here for evermore._

 _…I asked him to treat you with more respect —_ _“Oh, my God” —_ _and he said he would treat you any way he liked…_

 _(DAMN THAT TAPPING! That soft, distant, tapping. That relentless,_ insufferable _tapping_ — _damn it to Hell!)_

 _And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me —_ _filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before._

_…And he assaulted me. “Oh my God!”_

_(Yet the sound increased —_ _and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound —_ _much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.)_

**_“Ed…”_ **

_So, anyhow, long story short…_

_(Oh God! What could I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore!)_

_So that now, to still the beating of my heart (His heart! His heart!) I stood repeating ‘tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — (Villains! I shrieked, dissemble no more!) — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — This it is and nothing more._

_…I killed him._

**_“Edward.”_ **

_He was outside your apartment under the elevated train…_

_Pleasantly my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, (I admit the deed!) Sir, said I, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I must implore; (—tear up the planks! Here, here!) But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping; And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door…_

_…I stabbed him and he died._

_(It is the beating of his hideous heart!)_

_Darkness there and nothing more._

“Ed!”

When Ed’s eyes opened again, he was wracked with a such a deep, painful sob that he had no choice but to let out a wail, ripping at his sheets where they’d tangled around him and adhered to his sweat-slicked skin and pitching himself forward, clutching his head in his hands and _weeping._ He could do nothing more.

“Ed! Oh, God, _Ed,”_ Oswald’s voice came, so rich and thick with concern and such a blessing to hear that Ed could only sob harder.

“The light, Oswald, please…please turn on the lights, _please,”_ Ed begged, his own voice so meek and childish and broken that some deep, pretentious part of him was ashamed. He might have even cared, might have even had that itch deep in his chest to prove that overly-judgemental part of him wrong, to show that he _wasn't_ a disgrace and that he _was_ better and braver and stronger than anyone gave him credit for. He _might_ have cared, but the given circumstances had rendered him so ill and transfixed with terror that he couldn't even open his eyes to face the darkness, let alone confront his poorly internalized self-loathing.

“Oh, yes! The light, of course,” Oswald said breathlessly, careening toward the light switch and flicking it so aggressively Ed was subconsciously sure that he’d accidentally punched the wall in the process. “Th-There! There, the light’s on — see, Ed? _Ed?”_

The grief and panic in Oswald’s voice was like a slap to the face, so painful to hear that it seemed almost physically capable of taking a fistful of Ed’s hair and jerking his head up so that he’d at least _look_ at his confused, jittery, concerned friend, who was currently standing by the door wringing his hands like an anxious child.

God, Ed wanted so badly to lift up his head, to look Oswald in the eye, to assure him through his tears and hiccups that he was okay, that it was just a bad dream, that they’d been happening recently and it was likely just the cause of losing Isabella, they’d pass. But he couldn't do that. No matter how hard he tried, how many times he counted down from three or five or _ten_ in order to prepare, he _couldn't lift his head._ Not when he feared what he might see — what he _knew_ he’d see. His confidence in what he’d find only scared him that much more.

He lifted his head anyway. 

Two rotting corpses. Living. Breathing. Standing in his corners, taunting. Smiling. Laughing.

_“Psychopath.”_

“O-Oh, _God,”_ Ed whimpered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes so hard it hurt, red and blue bursts of color sparking to life against the inside of his eyelids.

“Ed? What is it? What happened? What’s wrong?” Oswald stammered, his uneven footsteps heavy and reassuring, spiritually grounding Ed in a world where he was with Oswald and no one else, safe in his bed, in his room, in a house in the more rural world just on the outskirts of Gotham.

Safe. He was _safe._

And the weight that hesitantly lowered itself onto the space of bed in front of him only helped calm his racing mind that much more.

The consolation of merely _being_ with Oswald was so powerful it was almost overwhelming, and in his distressed state, Ed couldn't bring himself to care too much when he threw himself into Oswald’s arms. The surprised grunt that the smaller man managed before having to focus on not toppling off the bed with Ed on top of him made his heart flutter briefly with mirth.

 _“Oh_ …O-Okay — it’s okay, Ed, I’m here, I’m…” Oswald took in a shaky breath (one that Ed felt tremble in his chest) then _slowly_ tightened his hold on Ed, the action so excruciatingly reluctant and uncertain that it practically _screamed_ inexperience. Ed was half tempted to drop to his knees and beg Oswald to grip him like a viper, to hold him in those slim arms as hard as he could, to trap him in warmth and comfort, squeeze the air out of him, squeeze the _life_ out of him — hell, _bruise him,_ he just needed to feel _something._ But he didn't do that. Not only would it put him in the uncomfortable position of being on his knees in front of Oswald (and _begging,_ nonetheless), but it would also mean having to leave his current position and risk dragging Oswald into unfamiliar territory he wasn't quite ready to dabble in just yet. The last thing he wanted was to overstep Oswald’s boundaries, wherever they may be.

So instead, he clung to Oswald like his life depended on it, burying into the soft fabric of his pajamas and letting himself cry — and only _slightly_ pretending like he hadn't noticed Oswald’s little hitch of breath when Ed had accidentally nuzzled the junction where his neck met his shoulder. The succeeding reiteration of aforementioned nuzzle was slightly more deliberate on Ed’s part, partly for the unexpected reaction it had earned him, and largely for the sense of safety such a secretive, unsullied place as Oswald’s neck offered him.

He pulled Oswald closer, practically crushing their chests together, craving that warmth, that _safety,_ settling his cheek against the slope of Oswald’s shoulder and pressing his nose just above the collar of his nightshirt. Oswald’s little gasp of breath was more noticeable this time.

“Ed…”

“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” Ed interrupted, his tone barely above a whisper. His voice was significantly muffled by Oswald’s skin, but the comfort of the close proximity blew any possibility of pulling away to repeat himself more coherently right out of the water. Oswald’s warmth, his smell, the silky smoothness of his pajamas and the fact that his skin somehow managed to be _even softer_ left Ed seriously considering tying them together so that he might never have to leave the solace of Oswald’s neck.

“O-Oh, you didn't — I couldn't sleep anyway,” Oswald said with a humorless chuckle, haltingly running his hand over Ed’s sweat-soaked shirt before letting it relax into an unconscious glide. “I just…I-I heard you rambling to yourself, so I thought I’d come ask you if you wanted some tea or something — m-maybe some company — but when I got to your door I could hear you moaning, and I didn't know if you were in distress or…I-I didn't wanna come in if it _wasn't_ distress — like, the opposite, actually—” Ed felt his face heat up, and he pulled Oswald even closer for it—“uh, but…but then you started talking and so I thought I could just knock…”

“Talking?” Ed asked, his voice low and cautious. “What was I saying?”

“Oh, like _I_ know," Oswald scoffed, “I couldn't hear you _that_ well.” When he was met with nothing but Ed’s own painfully patient silence, he sighed and continued. “You were…reciting poetry. It was Poe, I think.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Ed’s mouth. He took in a shuddering breath and pulled away slightly, propping his chin on Oswald’s shoulder so that he could speak clearly into his ear. 

_“‘Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for my lost Lenore — for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — nameless here for evermore.’”_

_“The Raven,”_ Oswald commented without waiting a beat, shifting slightly to avoid putting too much strain on his wounded leg. Ed almost slapped himself for his inconsideration, pulling away and scooting back against the headboard so that Oswald could move himself into a more comfortable position. In a perfect world, Ed would have said that Oswald almost looked _disappointed_ by the abrupt end to their prolonged hug.

“Yes,” Ed said with a sigh, keeping his head lowered in a half-hearted attempt to hide his bloodshot eyes and splotchy face. “One of my favorites.”

“You…” Oswald frowned for a moment, his eyes dark with thought before he licked his lips and leaned closer to Ed. “You kept changing the pitch of your voice, too. While you were reciting it. Like there were two people. Or two poems.”

This time, Ed couldn't help his smile. People often underestimated Oswald in many things, his intelligence being one of them, and it seemed that Ed was the one guilty of that tonight. He certainly hadn't expected the kingpin to actually care enough to follow the changes in Ed’s voice to the conclusion that he’d been rambling on and on in his sleep about more than one of Poe’s works.

 _“_ _‘Villains!’ I shrieked, ‘dissemble no more! I admit the deed!_ _—_ _tear up the planks! here, here!_ _—_ _It is the beating of his hideous heart!’”_

 _“The Tell-Tale Heart,”_ Oswald remarked, just as fast.

He sat there a moment, seeming to be carefully mulling over his next words as if the wrong thing might just pitch Ed into a mindless killing spree.

“Both…rather _dark_ poems from a dark writer…both dealing with death and loss in one way or another.” Oswald looked up at from beneath his lashes, something that made Ed’s spine tingle for reasons he wasn't quite clear on. “This…wouldn't be about Isabella, would it?”

Dammit. Now Ed wished people’s underestimations and belittlements of Oswald were true. Maybe then he wouldn't be so damn perceptive.

He glanced down, endeavoring to avoid Oswald’s gaze and the raw judgement he would undoubtedly find there. He didn't need that now. Especially not from him.

“I…lost someone, Oswald,” Ed croaked out, absentmindedly reaching up to fiddle with his glasses. Upon realizing their absence, he pushed his hand higher, running his fingers through the matted mess of sweaty curls adorning his head. “Someone very important to me. Someone I cared about very deeply. I think I’m allowed to dream about them.”

His tone had certainly been colder than he’d intended — more blunt, more clipped, more… _hurtful_ — but it was too late to take it back now, and if the shaky intake of breath that came from Oswald’s direction broke Ed’s heart just a little bit more, he saw no point in letting it show.

“N-No, of course! I-I didn't—I hadn't meant—Th-That’s not what I was trying to _say,_ Edward—”

“You’re worried about me remaining fixated on her death and subconsciously relating my loss to the macabre works of a nineteenth-century poet, inevitably driving myself down a dark path into an unhealthy mental state,” Ed rattled off monotonously, leaning over to his nightstand and yanking open the bottom drawer, promptly extracting the half-full bottle of wine that had been rolling around inside of it rather uselessly. “Well…an even _unhealthier_ mental state, realistically speaking,” he grunted, tacking it on like an afterthought as he pulled himself back into a sitting position, bottle cradled carefully in his arms. “You’re concerned for me, Oswald. The sentiment is appreciated.”

“Of _course_ I’m concerned for you, Ed,” Oswald said, sounding on the verge of offended, his eyes shining with something Ed was currently too blind to even attempt to read. “Because you lost someone, yes, of course — I've lost people, too, Ed — but because you’re having _nightmares_ about them. Because you’re waking up _crying._ Because you’re in such a panicked state of unrest that you’re reciting _Poe_ in your _sleep.”_ He stopped and frowned, looking pointedly at the partially drunk bottle of Zinfandel currently being held to Ed’s chest as if it were some priceless treasure. “Because you keep one of my highest ABV wines in your _nightstand.”_

Ed followed Oswald’s gaze a little shamefully, running his thumb over the label, his lip twitching with a wave of self-loathing he belligerently bottled up and stashed away in some dark, dusty corner of his heart — a nightstand of disgraceful secrets only he could see, bound with chains and weighed down by locks the size of his fist. At some point, he’d lost the keys, and he didn't dare bother looking for them. What was in there could rot for all he cared.

“You’re lucky I didn't take your _Châteauneuf-du-Pape,”_ Ed said with a sly smirk, turning the bottle upright and unceremoniously popping the cork. “I have a little too much respect for you and a good bottle of wine to go hiding something so expensive in my _drawer of secrets.”_

“You have more secrets in there, then?” Oswald asked with a playful tilt of his head, eyeing the drawer curiously.

Ed shrugged and took a swig of wine straight from the bottle, his tongue curling in surprise at the sharpness of alcohol so soon after waking up. “Nothing too well-kept. Sleeping aids, or so I like to call them,” he said, nudging the edge of the nightstand with his elbow almost heartily, as if he were joking around with an old friend and not sharing a drink with an inanimate object.

“Sleeping aids?” Oswald asked, and when Ed looked back at him, all cheerful pretenses had been shed from his face, leaving him bare and exposing the raw worry with a dash of fear that so devilishly coaxed an almost imperceptible quiver to his lip.

“Oswald, it’s nothing like that!” Ed said, placing a hand on Oswald’s knee and shaking his head vehemently, huffing out a few dry laughs. “They’re _simple_ things — melatonin, Benadryl, over the counter stuff.”

When Oswald didn't react, Ed felt pressured to continue, if not by the silence alone then by that eerie knowing look in Oswald’s eye. Ed was lying. Evading the truth. And Oswald knew.

“Maybe a few smaller bottles of alcohol — a-an airplane bottle of Moscato or two.” Silence. Patience. _Knowing._ “Maybe a small white Zinfandel.” Silence. “And a bottle of Pinot Noir under the bed.”

Finally, Oswald sighed, eyes softening and eyebrows furrowing with an understanding gaze that felt too painfully maternal.

“When did you find the time to raid my wine cellar?”

Ed flexed his grip nervously on the neck of the bottle, glancing down at the dark liquid sloshing within as if it would give him some suitable response, like those cryptic and humorously unreliable answers that floated to the surface of a Magic 8 ball.

No such thing happened.

Distantly, Ed wondered if he should give shaking the bottle a go, as one usually did with the aforementioned prophetic children’s toy, but pushed the thought away in exchange for taking another sip.

“Such an opportunity is really not as rare as it should be. All I had to do was slip away while you were adequately preoccupied with business.”

Oswald raised his eyebrows. “What could _possibly_ render me too busy to notice you sneaking off to the cellar?” Ed shrugged with a smirk. “And then sneaking back up with your arms full of wine bottles?” At that, Ed allowed himself a laugh.

“I’m good at what I do, I guess,” he said, raising the bottle in a half-hearted toast before taking another swig.

Oswald smiled softly, his eyes just slightly crinkling at the corners. Ed wanted to drown in that expression, commit it to memory and lock it away somewhere safe, to gaze upon whenever he was sad like this again. In any other instance, he might have, but just then, he found he couldn't. He couldn't drown in a pool with no water, couldn't bask in the sunlight if the sky was overcast.

The smile was fake, the joy in it lost somewhere on the journey from Oswald’s brain to his muscles. Either that, or Oswald was too distracted to put enough effort into making it look genuine. Ed was about to bring it up when the grandfather clock downstairs distantly chimed three.

Oswald jumped and looked over his shoulder at the doorway, fidgeting slightly where he was sitting.

“Three a.m. already, my dear Edward,” he said, turning back with a much more convincing smile — the contrast between it and its predecessor made Ed feel slightly ill. “Time certainly does fly, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ed mumbled, hugging the bottle closer to his chest. “I suppose it does.”

“As much as I’d love to continue this chat of ours, I should probably be returning to my quarters. You need rest, Ed. As much as you can get, and you certainly won’t be getting it if I’m sitting here talking your ear off!” he said, his smile stretching wider, shining brighter, and he climbed to his feet, correcting his pajamas where they’d become slightly twisted. Ed wanted to remark on the fact that really _he_ had done all the talking, but before he could, Oswald was wishing him goodnight and turning to leave.

“Wait!” Ed shouted, lunging forward and grabbing vacant air. Oswald was too far to reach — perhaps a yard from the foot of the bed — but luckily Ed’s outburst had stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his eyes wide with surprise, mouth slightly agape, curious, waiting. Ed composed himself and withdrew his arm, swallowing nervously. “Wait, Oswald,” he said softer, more of a plea than a command.

“What is it, Ed?” Oswald asked, his seemingly omnipresent concern taking over his voice once more.

“I…Don’t go.” Ed tightened his grip around the bottle, blinking slowly and taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Stay.”

Oswald let out a soft chuckle, flashing another sincere smile. “Ed, I've just said that you can’t get any sleep if we keep talking—”

“Then don’t talk,” Ed interrupted vaguely, shifting the bottle in his lap and trying to focus his blurry gaze on Oswald’s face. “I don’t want you to talk. I want you to stay. With me…Please.”

Oswald’s brow furrowed and his mouth opened, ready to say something, ready to question, but no words came out. Instead, he stood there gaping like a buffoon, blinking erratically and struggling to comprehend Ed’s request.

“Ed, I’m afraid I don’t—”

“If you want to sleep…sleep here,” Ed clarified, choosing to ignore the racing of his own heart as one might ignore the droning of a pesky fly.

It was a meaningless request — a show of weakness, sure, a particularly shameful admission, but nothing more than his inner frightened child seeking comfort after waking up from a nasty nightmare. Oswald was his best friend, and Ed had just lost the love of his life for the _second time_ — he needed a friend. That’s all he was asking for.

“Ed,” Oswald gasped, mouth still fighting to form words, eyes wide and glassy, fists clenched at his sides. “Ed, are you…” He took a faltering step forward, licking his lips anxiously and sinking back down onto the foot of the bed. “Are you asking me to…?”

“Sleep with me,” Ed blurted out, internally cringing at the inherently suggestive request. It was just a _friend_ he was looking for, nothing else. It didn't have to be a provocative statement, he was just _making_ it into that. He was just looking for a friend, just a _friend, just a friend…_

Oswald’s back stiffened and his face flushed such a dark shade of crimson so quickly that Ed felt a flicker of mild concern for the smaller man’s well-being. He could imagine that he himself wasn't in too much of a better state — he had felt the heat flood his cheeks the minute he’d all but commanded Oswald to stop walking.

“Ed, I…hardly think that’s _practical—”_

“The bed is big enough,” Ed replied a little too eagerly, scooting to the edge of the mattress and gesturing at the rest of the space available. “And if your next objection is that it’s _inappropriate,_ I’ll accuse you of having a dirty mind.”

Oswald blushed harder, a feat which Ed would have previously thought impossible and currently thought extremely unhealthy.

“Please, Oswald. I never really… _had_ anyone when I used to have nightmares. You’re the first person to ever check up on me like you did. It’s…indescribably comforting. Your _presence_ is comforting, Oswald. If I can wake up…” Ed choked, his throat constricting around the words, as if they shouldn't be said, were too _risky_ to be said. He persisted, gulping strenuously, forcing some moisture into his painfully dry mouth. “If I can wake up to you, Oswald, I’ll know I’m safe.”

Oswald tried and failed to suppress a shiver, avoiding Ed’s stare and reaching up to fiddle with his collar. “You _are_ safe, Ed,” he said softly, letting his eyes travel from the closet to the ceiling, and finally back to Ed’s face. “And…if I’m the best way for you to realize that, then I suppose it’s my duty to stay.”

Ed smiled. It wasn't like Oswald to resort to _morals_ and _duties_ as a means of justifying his actions, and the fact that he felt the need to do so with Ed stoked a fire in Ed’s heart that he subconsciously knew should never have been lit.

“But only if you let me have a drink. You did steal it from me, after all,” Oswald said, crossing his arms and glaring at Ed in a very unintimidating manner, so nearly childlike that Ed couldn't help but grin.

“You drive a hard bargain, Mayor Cobblepot,” he said, passing the bottle to Oswald, who promptly seized it and crawled to the other side of the bed. Ed pulled the covers back, the equivalent of opening a door in their given circumstances, and smiled even harder when Oswald grew ever more flustered by the action.

“And, as I recall, when I moved in, you told me that everything in this house was as much mine as it was yours,” he remarked with a rather smug grin.

“Well, I hadn't been accounting for the probability of you ransacking my wine stash then,” Oswald retorted with a genially mocking smirk, tugging the covers up to his stomach and tipping the bottle back, taking much more than just _a drink,_ Ed noted with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows.

“Oh, _please,”_ Oswald scoffed, passing the now quarter-full bottle back to Ed, “you’re hardly one to judge, Ed. I’m not the one who keeps a bottle of Cabernet under the bed like some lewd magazine.” He crossed his arms with a self-satisfied grin, scooting down the bed and settling against the pillows, only slightly propped up.

“It’s…Pinot Noir, actually,” Ed corrected, swishing the contents of the bottle around before taking a few consecutive drinks as Oswald had done, not wanting to be shown up by a man significantly smaller in stature than him.

“Semantics, Ed,” Oswald groaned, snatching the bottle from Ed’s grip before he could sneak in another sip.

“It’s not semantics, it’s you misremembering possibly important information. That’s hardly characteristic of you.” Ed yanked the bottle back just as abruptly.

“Ed, I highly doubt that you stashing bottles of wine under your bed like a _teenager_ will prove to be ‘important information’.”

“You never know,” Ed said, holding the bottle just out of Oswald’s reach, shaking the last ounces around tauntingly. “Maybe knowing where I keep my super-secret alcohol stash will prove useful one day.”

“Yeah, right,” Oswald snorted, lunging over Ed and taking the bottle back with a triumphant laugh. “It’ll prove useful the day I bring Jim Gordon in here to bust you.”

Ed paused, frowning, genuinely worrying if he had done something recently that would warrant Jim Gordon’s summoning. “For what?”

“Stealing from the mayor, obviously,” Oswald said, waving the bottle in front of Ed’s face before downing the rest of the contents like a man dying of thirst. Ed smiled fondly.

“As your live-in chief of staff, I highly doubt that arrest would stand in a court of law.”

“Then the court won’t be involved,” Oswald said with a contented sigh, lowering the bottle from his mouth and examining the label with vague fascination. “I get favors,” he added with a wink, setting the bottle down on the floor.

“Apparently, so do I,” Ed said, shuffling further into the sheets, smiling when the apples of Oswald’s cheeks pinkened with a rather becoming blush. “For which I am eternally grateful.”

“Ed,” Oswald said with a breathless laugh, scooting until he was entirely horizontal, arranging the pillows on his side of the bed into a vague simulation of a nest, “you really shouldn't thank me. Like I said, it’s my…duty as your boss, host, and _friend_ to make sure that you feel safe in your accommodations.”

“And I do. Now,” Ed said, smiling at both his bedfellow and the warm buzz blossoming in his chest, a golden glow that made him feel rather free and forthcoming, his tongue loose and his mind just a tad too hazy to care. He blamed it on sleep deprivation and the rather high alcohol content of the Zinfandel Oswald had mentioned. “I mean it, Oswald. Thank you for staying. It means…” He glanced down nervously, tracing his fingers over the creases in the sheet. “It means a lot. Truly.”

“Ed,” Oswald said, so softly that Ed just had to look up, eyes darting over every nuance of Oswald’s gentle and otherwise unreadable expression. “I never got the chance to return the sentiment all those nights ago, but…” He shuffled forward ever so slightly, hesitantly bringing a hand up between their bodies to meet Ed’s, fingertips brushing against Ed’s knuckles in a silent question. Ed answered by upturning his palm, lacing their fingers together and feeling his heart skip from such a simple action, eyes locked with Oswald’s as they bore into him, powerful and relentless. “I would do anything for you, Ed. Any wish you have, granted; any need, sated; any want, met. Anything you ask, Ed, anything at all…I’ll do it.”

Any other time in any other place with anyone else, Ed might have brushed off the confession as a deliberate distraction with the belief the speaker had some ulterior motive — wanting to trick him, wanting to manipulate him, wanting to _get under his skin._ Here, he couldn't do that, even if he had wanted to. The raw, dangerous, unguarded _honesty_ in Oswald’s pale eyes was captivating, of course, but also so earnest and bona fide that Ed found himself practically shaking with nondescript desire. It was a passionate gaze, a heartfelt gaze — in a world where Ed could allow himself such wistful fantasies, he might have even called it a _loving_ gaze. It was a dangerous trap, one destined for heartbreaking disillusionment, but Ed let it snare him nonetheless.

He squeezed Oswald’s hand in nonverbal acknowledgement, hoping it served as a sufficient response to buy him time while he tore through his mind in search of the right words.

“In…In that case,” Ed began, eyelids fluttering and teeth grinding anxiously, “might I…might I trouble you for one more favor?”

Oswald took in a shaky breath and reached over with his free hand, gripping Ed’s shoulder and rubbing concentric circles into the fabric of his nightshirt with his thumb. “Anything, Ed.”

“Will you…” He broke off, hooking his teeth into his bottom lip and shaking his head stiffly, trying to force his thoughts into a cleaner place, a more _innocent_ place. “Just…Hold me?”

He could feel Oswald stiffen, could hear his breath hitch, could feel his grip tighten at both points of contact. He kept his eyes trained on the buttons of Oswald’s shirt, not daring to meet his eyes — he was filled to the brim and near bubbling over with a sickening, poisonous kind of fear, dreading what he might find in the place of that once gentle and intimate stare.

Eventually, Oswald let out a wavering sigh, smoothing his hand down Ed’s arm and giving his hand one more comforting squeeze. “Of…Of course, Ed. Turn over.”

Ed obliged, perhaps a little too eagerly, hastily relinquishing his hold on Oswald’s hand to flip over onto his other side, curling into a tight ball and pulling the covers up to his chin.

He could hear Oswald’s unsteady breathing, could feel him trembling when he pressed his chest to Ed’s back, wrapping his arm around Ed’s waist with halting trepidation, a feeling Ed understood all too well, its inky black talons gripping his own heart and making him hold his breath, bite his lip, and squeeze his eyes shut as he waited for Oswald’s inevitable refusal to go through with the action Ed had asked of him.

Inevitable, perhaps, but apparently only in the dark, nightmarish world of Ed’s insecurity. Oswald didn't refuse, didn't draw back, but instead pulled Ed closer, molding his body to fit the curve of Ed’s spine, pressing his forehead between Ed’s shoulder blades.

“Is this okay?” he asked, mercifully cutting the silent tension between them. Ed was thankful for the intervention, immeasurably so, yet not so thankful for the way he had to strain to hear what it was that Oswald had said.

 _“Yes,”_ he gasped, burying his face further into the sheets. “Perfect.”

“Do you want me to turn off the lights?”

Ed pried one eye open, glaring at the glowing light fixture with venomous hostility, despising it for even coming _close_ to ruining such a divine moment.

“Not if it means you letting go.”

Oswald huffed out a laugh, his breath hot against Ed’s back, even through his shirt. “Guess it’ll stay on, then.”

“I guess it will.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not really,” Ed said truthfully, letting his eyes slip shut once more. “You?”

“A little bit. But your body serves as a pretty good shield.”

Ed smiled, hoping Oswald couldn't feel the way his heart sped up at that. “I’m glad it’s good for something.”

Oswald hummed in agreement, the vibration sending chills down Ed’s spine, and it took all of his gradually depleting will power not to shiver violently.

“Goodnight, Ed,” Oswald mumbled, his hushed tone adding to his already muffled voice and making it that much harder for Ed to understand him. Even if he hadn't caught all of the ending consonants, Ed could guess what Oswald had said and beamed secretly to himself.

“Goodnight, Oswald.”


	2. It's Hard to be Brave When You're Alone in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“This is Gotham, Oswald. Any modicum of mercy life may have has never shown its face here.”_

The screams of someone doomed to death was something one had to grow accustomed to in Ed’s line of work. It was a tedious process, sure, but not impossible. Very similar, in fact, to dealing with a significant other’s snoring — it was there, you expected it, eventually, you got used to it. Ed hadn't quite reached that point yet, which is why when the first desperate, croaking peal of an agonized wail reached his ears, his eyes shot open and all of his muscles tensed in preparation for a knife in his chest or a gun in his mouth.

A little surprisingly (and more so thankfully), no such thing happened. Instead, upon ripping his eyes open, he was greeted by a dark surface, blurry and distorted without his glasses but still recognizably the ceiling of his bedroom.

Through the piercing wail that was still ringing in his ears, another sound pushed through, accompanying the sudden movement next to him as a shadowy figure bolted upright, their head whipping from side to side and indistinct features painted with a mind-numbing array of emotions.

“What the _hell?_ Ed? _Ed?”_

In the weeks preceding that moment Ed had awoken innumerable times to find someone else in his bed. Invariably, they were never really there, but it had never failed to give him a start. This time, however, there was no creeping panic or subconscious disgust at the prospect of an imaginary bedmate, but an overwhelming sense of safety and relief upon hearing that all too familiar voice emanating from that all too familiar face that was now taking over everything in Ed’s line of sight.

“Ed, Christ, what’s wrong? Can you hear me? _Ed?”_ Oswald cried, his tone and expression correspondent in their gradual increase in hysteria. “Ed, _Ed,_ it’s okay, calm down! Ed, _breathe!”_

“The light,” Ed gasped, abruptly breaking the continuous stream of what he’d only then realized was his own screaming. “The lights, Oswald, _the lights—”_

Oswald’s shoulders slumped and his expression slackened with a wave of relief that might have been contagious if Ed wasn't scared stiff of something he couldn't see or comprehend. There was just something _terrible_ there, he knew there was, and the thought of scanning the room in search of it made his eyes well with horrified tears, the sight of which spurred Oswald into action.

“The light — _shit,_ of course, Ed, I’m sorry!” he rambled, stumbling out of the bed and across the room to the light switch. “I-I-I turned it off sometime in the night because I couldn't get to sleep and you seemed so peaceful I thought it wouldn't matter — There! The lights are on, Ed, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he said with a dry, desperate laugh, as if the idea that this situation was anywhere near _remotely_ okay was something worth laughing at.

Something even less humorous was the realization that even with the overhead light glaring in Ed’s eyes, he found he still couldn't move. It was a frightfully sobering sensation, that inability to move one’s extremities no matter how hard they were trying. He was transfixed, his eyes locked on Oswald’s face upon his return to the bed, his lungs aching for a breath he couldn't seem to get — a fact that Oswald seemed to pick up on in no time.

“Ed, it’s okay, I’m right here. I’m _here,_ Ed, you’re okay. Here, here — can you hold my hand? Can you do that for me, Ed?” he asked, offering his upturned palm as if presenting Ed with a gift, curling his fingers twice in a strange, informal beckoning gesture. “Just…grab my hand.”

It was such an absurdly simple request that Ed could have laughed if he hadn't been shaking with silent screams. Objectively speaking, reaching out and taking Oswald’s hand should have been as easy as breathing (which itself was gradually seeming less and less easy), but the minute he’d tried to move his hand, he was stupefied by how heavy it felt, as if his blood had turned to lead in his veins.

“Ed?” Oswald asked, his voice weak and shaky, his hand slowly falling to the comforter with the realization that Ed (regrettably) wasn't going to be able to fulfill his request. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

In his current state of bemusing immobility, Ed was shocked to find that he had an answer to such a question.

“I’m _terrified,”_ he choked out with a sobbing breath, finally breaking down and letting his inadvertently contained wails break free, welling up and out of his throat like an emotional volcano.

“What can I do?” Oswald asked softly, his voice so small and broken that Ed only sobbed harder.

“The room. Look around the room — i-is there anyone there?”

Oswald frowned, and despite his paralyzing fear, Ed could see why. It was a ludicrous request, for surely if there was someone else in the room Oswald would have noticed them. But, in spite of the older man’s befuddlement, he obliged, sitting up and turning his head owlishly to examine every corner of the room.

“No, Ed, there’s…there’s no one here. It’s just me.”

A nagging voice in the back of Ed’s head strongly disagreed, but he took in a shuddering breath and forced himself to nod stiffly, grateful that Oswald would humor his embarrassingly juvenile worries.

“Hold me again. Please,” Ed said, gnawing on his lip in a futile attempt to control some of his sobs. If Oswald was a little hasty to comply, Ed hadn't taken the time to notice before the smaller man was pulling him up into a slumped sitting position and wrapping his arms around him in a facsimile of the viper grip Ed had longed for earlier that night. He’d never been held in such a way, so closely, so desperately, someone who actually cared about his well-being holding him in their arms and shushing him softly and combing their fingers through his curly, matted hair in an overwhelmingly comforting gesture. It was a novel experience, just enough of everything he’d been starving for that he found his arms were light enough to reciprocate, wrapping loosely around Oswald’s thin frame and clinging to the silky fabric of his nightshirt.

“Is this helping?” Oswald asked in a hoarse, hushed voice.

“More than you could know,” Ed replied with a shaky sigh, tucking his chin against Oswald’s shoulder and burying into his neck once more.

“Less scared?”

“Mmhm.”

“Good,” Oswald breathed, and Ed could _feel_ his relief, filling his chest with each beat of Oswald’s heart against him, loosening his muscles with every deep, controlled breath Oswald took.

“Do you think,” Oswald began, but trailed off, clearing his throat and trying again. “Can you tell me what the hell you’re even dreaming about?”

Ed laughed softly against Oswald’s skin, the smaller man shivering against him because of it, an expected and secretly welcome reaction, one that some starving part of Ed lapped up greedily.

“It’s nothing,” Ed mumbled dismissively.

 _“Nothing_ wouldn't make you cry like that, Ed. _Nothing_ wouldn't have you screaming bloody murder in your sleep,” Oswald retorted, easing his grip on Ed and pulling back to meet his gaze.

“No, that’s just it, it’s… _nothing,”_ Ed clarified with a thoughtful frown, pushing his hair out of his face as if the sweaty curls were blocking his train of thought. “There’s nothing in the dream that should be so upsetting.”

Oswald’s brow was furrowed, a sure sign that his interest was piqued, and he shuffled farther out of the hug, leaning forward intently and giving a small shake of his head. “Describe it to me?”

“It’s a hall.”

“A hall?” Oswald echoed. “Like…Like _my_ hall, like the one outside?”

“No, it’s…uglier and wider and _impossibly_ long — _endless,_ I’d say. It isn't even a house, it’s just that one hall, _rotting_ and _dank_ and so, _so_ unbearably lonely. So silent.” He paused. “Except…Except it’s _not._ Not silent, that is. I can…I can hear something, something so far away I can barely make it out and yet so close it’s almost _deafening,”_ he said breathlessly, fisting his hands in his hair and tugging, worrying his lip between his teeth and closing his eyes against that _noise._ “White noise,” he continued, “it’s like white noise, scratching at the back of my head, and all I can do is run from it and the floor is caving in under my feet and the walls are repeating and there’s nothing behind me but it’s _following_ me, Oswald. It’s _everywhere.”_

“Does it ever end?” Oswald asked, sounding so genuinely concerned that Ed opened his eyes again to meet his fiery stare.

“Sometimes,” he said, slowly lowering his hands back into his lap. “Sometimes it does. It did earlier and it did just now.” He dropped his gaze anxiously, rolling the sheets between his fingers. “It’s worse when it ends.”

“Worse? Worse how?”

“Worse because I…wake up, sort of. It’s painfully meta — a dream within a dream, I might say if I were more of the poet I am at heart. Everything’s the same when I ‘wake up’ — the room is the same, the weather, my clothes, but I’m…not alone.”

His eyes flicked up briefly, just a fleeting glance at Oswald’s face to see if he was taking him seriously. In that transitory moment, Ed had never seen a more serious gaze.

“Isabella’s there.” Oswald sucked in a slow breath through his teeth, a soft hissing noise that grated on Ed’s eardrums. “Kristen is too. They both are, in separate corners of the room, and they’re talking to me.”

“What are they saying?” Oswald said, his voice low and dangerous, a threat buried in there somewhere but too well concealed for Ed to bother dissecting it.

He shook his head vaguely. “Things they've said before. Isabella’s saying over and over again how I’d never hurt her, Kristen’s calling me a psychopath. It’s like my last nights spent with them are playing on repeat, a goddamn skipping record and I have to deal with it.”

“You shouldn't have to,” Oswald growled, placing his hand on Ed’s knee and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s not your fault, Ed, it’s m…It’s not your fault.”

Such reassurances were often spoken easily with no ounce of sincerity, so Ed could hardly blame himself for his insecurity when he glanced up to scrutinize Oswald’s gaze. He could always measure the authenticity of the man’s words by the truths his eyes told so forthrightly. Some said it was a weakness, and before, Ed might have agreed with them, but recently Oswald had been gaining more control over what his eyes revealed, and if he kept it up, Ed could certainly see it as an overpowering advantage. To lie so convincingly, to sell it using every part of your body was something Ed had never been able to master, and watching Oswald learn to do so was euphoriant, for lack of a better term.

This time, however, Ed could see that there was no lie in Oswald’s expression, and he was slightly ashamed by himself for his surprise at being met with such a heartfelt and intense stare.

“Kristen was my fault, though,” he objected, if for no other reason than to combat the faith Oswald had placed in him that he knew he was more than undeserving of. “I should have taken that as a warning sign not to fall in love again. I’m too destructive. Too dangerous. I kill anyone that could ever have a chance at loving me.”

“That’s not true!” Oswald insisted, seizing Ed’s face in his hands and keeping their eyes locked so that Ed couldn't convince himself that the words were merely empty assurances by avoiding Oswald’s unfairly candid expressions.

“It is true, Oswald. I loved Kristen, and maybe she loved me, and I killed her. Pinned her to the wall and choked her to death.” Oswald’s expression flickered and fell, drifting back to patient and attentive concern like a tree shedding its leaves. “I loved Isabella, and she loved me, and she’s gone.”

“But I—You—You didn't kill her!” Oswald said, shaking his head and grinning as if he’d just won an argument.

“I could have. I almost did. I’m a dangerous man, Oswald. Better to be left unloved.”

 _“No one_ deserves to be unloved, Ed. Certainly not you!” he added with a strained chuckle. “You've done some bad things, Ed, sure — everyone has! — but worse men than you have been forgiven and accepted by someone. You are worthy of love, Ed, and you _will_ get it. There’s someone out there for everyone.”

“So…You’re saying that Kristen and Isabella weren't those ‘someone’s?” Ed challenged, promptly feeling more than a little contrite about his bitter tone.

“Maybe not,” Oswald said after a moment of wordless mouthing, “but if that’s the case then you needn't worry about never finding love.”

“And what if one of them was that ‘someone’? What if I killed the only person I could ever be happy with?”

Oswald lowered his gaze and chewed on his lip, looking up at last with a sort of broken glimmer in his eye. “I doubt life would be so cruel as to give you that someone and then take them away from you by your own hand.”

Ed scoffed and smiled a tight-lipped, insincere smile. Oswald’s naivety was cute, and perhaps something along the lines of boyishly charming, but it was naivety nonetheless, and Ed could hardly put up with it.

“This is Gotham, Oswald. Any modicum of mercy life may have has never shown its face here.”

It was as obvious of an end to a conversation as one could get, leaving no room for argument and plenty of room for nearly unbearable tension.

Hasty to move on, Oswald withdrew his hands, and Ed withdrew one of the two aforementioned airplane bottles of Moscato from his nightstand and downed it, hardly stopping for a breath. It was far more dizzying than it should have been, which Ed promptly blamed on his empty stomach and rapid consumption, but it didn't stop him from extracting the other, taking a few sips and passing it to Oswald, who eyed it warily before accepting.

“Not to throw stones, but…this isn't really the healthiest coping method in the books, Ed,” Oswald said tentatively, taking a polite sip from the bottle in his hand before setting it down on his respective nightstand.

“Less of a coping method and more of a sleeping strategy,” Ed replied stiffly, shuffling back down into the covers and rubbing his eyes.

“There are a lot of…safer ways to do that, I’d imagine. I can make some calls and get you stronger sleeping agents, Ed — ones you won’t have to pair with alcohol. I can do it now, in fact, if you’ll just let me—”

“No,” Ed said sternly, shocked by his own commanding inflection and even more so by his body’s instinct to lunge forward and grip Oswald’s wrist, pulling him back onto the bed. “Stay. Please.”

“Ed,” Oswald began, frowning uncertainly, “it wouldn't take me five minutes if I just—”

 _“Stay,”_ Ed said again, tugging Oswald more insistently, pitching him forward onto the bed with a startled grunt.

Oswald groaned dramatically, yanking his arm out of Ed’s grasp in retaliation and moving to get under the covers again. “Fine, I’ll call them later — and you won’t stop me, then!” he barked, jabbing a finger in Ed’s chest.

“Of course not,” Ed said with a complacent smirk, turning on his side to face Oswald, who settled down with a theatrical huff. Despite his exaggerated display of annoyance, Ed could see the glimmer of contentment in his eye, a sliver of something pure and authentic that warmed Ed’s heart and stretched his smile even wider.

“Hey, Oswald?”

“Are you gonna ask me to hold you again?” Oswald griped, eyeing the offending party out of his peripherals.

“No, actually,” Ed said with an embarrassed laugh, scratching his head. “I was just…gonna say thank you. For everything you've done.”

At that, Oswald turned his head completely, facing Ed full on. “For everything I've done? Ed, I've…I haven’t done anything.”

“But you’re wrong,” Ed said with a smile, hoping to convey what he meant with that one small twist of his mouth and yet knowing all too well that emotions could never be so simple. “You've done more for me in these past few hours than most people have my whole life. You stayed with me when I asked you to, _held_ me when I asked you to, checked up on me when I _didn't_ ask you to. You _cared_ for me, Oswald. That’s more than I could ever ask for and far more than I’m worth.”

Oswald blinked at him stupidly for a moment that seemed just short of being far too long before casting his eyes down and taking Ed’s hand in his with a soft, uncertain smile.

“I care more for you than you could ever know, Ed.”

“And I for you, Oswald,” Ed returned with a much bolder smile, lacing his fingers with Oswald’s and squeezing his hand. “No one could ever ask for a better friend than you.”

**\- - - -**

Ed was not one unfamiliar with the Biblical portrayals of Hell. Certainly it was something he had long since wished to keep trapped in his past where many other renditions of Hell lay dormant, but occasionally the memory arose, and almost always he was able to stamp it down, tie it up, and send it back to the furthest recesses of his memory where he contained everything else unsavory in a stainless steel vault.

This time, however, when the bitter memories arose and the words that preached of fire and brimstone, demons and eternal torment reared up defiantly in his mind’s eye, he couldn't force them away. They remained, incessant and pernicious, growing clearer with each passing minute, growing louder with each beat of his heart.

As unable as he might have been to once again condemn them to his memory vault, he presently found another and possibly more effective rebuttal than his go-to method of deflection. Here, standing in a wide and rotting hallway, the air dank and musty, he found that he could instead debunk those horrendous images ingrained in his mind of a world beneath all of existence, impossibly low and unfathomably traumatic. “That is not Hell,” he could say with a disdainful scoff. “This is.”

_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before…_

The dream was always the same: The dark walls peeling in stained, curling strands of sun-bleached paper, the floorboards moldy and rotting and wet with an unknown substance, and the _panic_ that permeated the air like electricity, prickling at the back of Ed’s neck and coaxing forth his tears with little to no effort. It wasn't a house of nightmares — he couldn't call it that, because it _wasn't_ a house. It was a tunnel, a vast, endless expanse of decaying hallway that stretched on and on either side of him and on and on forward and back. This was it. This was Hell, and Ed could smile knowing that he’d finally solved the mystery of that seemingly inevitable nightmare that had plagued his conscience since his already hellish childhood.

So he started to walk.

_But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”_

All he ever did — every night of every day of every week since his world ended with Isabella’s life — was walk. Down that hall, where the walls repeated but the floor never creaked in the same place. Down deeper into that bottomless pit that surely fell all the way to Satan’s throne, where he would be sat laughing, faceless and dark and piercing Ed with eyeless sockets, the embodiment of all things evil. Ed had never truly believed that description.

 _(True! —_ _nervous —_ _very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?)_

Possibly the one thing about this tunnel (or hall or hell or hole) that irked Ed the most was that he had no conception of which direction he was trekking. It mustn't be down, nor up, either, for surely he would feel that somehow in his body. So it was no descent into Hell, nor ascension into Heaven (not as if he had ever believed he’d be welcome there to begin with). It was just…a hall. Not a maze, even, because it would have had an end. Not a labyrinth, either, because it would have been too entertaining. Just the endless, _endless_ expanse of empty hall, stretching on and on over the horizon if there was a horizon to reach.

Every step Ed took made his stomach sink just a little more, made him sicker, weaker, almost to the point that he could feel the color draining from his skin as one might strain the water from a rag. After the 156th board to creak (because Ed was counting — of course he was — with nothing else to do), he began to notice a subtle unsteadiness to his lumbering gait.

_Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before._

Truer words were never spoken, Ed remarked without opening his mouth, for it was busy smiling. There _was_ a tapping — the only sound that ever accompanied him on his journey — and it was most definitely louder than before. Just barely, ever so slightly, such a slight increase in volume that no human could ever catch it.

_(The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute.)_

But, my apologies I must offer, Ed thought to no one in particular, for it is less of a tapping than a dripping. A very distant dripping, of course — unreachable, even, of course — but dripping nonetheless.

_“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something more at my window lattice; let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—”_

There was something else that Ed found especially irksome about this endless boundless ceaseless tunnel or channel or shaft to — or from — or in — Hell.

_“—Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore—”_

What he loathed possibly more than walking in a world devoid of direction was exploring a world where everything to explore was just beyond your grasp. That dripping, for example, drip, drip, dripping like a bleeding pig, drip, drip, dripping like a gutted carcass, dripping on the floor, _ruining_ the floor.

_“Tis the wind and nothing more!”_

I’m afraid, my friend, I must disagree, for there is no wind here.

_(Now this is the point. You fancy me mad.)_

Madmen know nothing, yes, of course, but didn't I read somewhere that madmen possess inhuman strength?

 _In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But with mien of lord and lady, perched above my chamber door —_ _perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —_ _Perched, and sat, and nothing more._

Somehow I fear that speculation did not end well for me.

_(Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain.)_

Oh, then I see that madmen have no ears. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Ed smiled faintly. Wise men like Jim Gordon, blind as a bat and dumber than a bag of rocks, who thought there was a _reason_ why Ed had done what he had done. Wise men have no eyes, of course, but policemen have no brains.

_For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such a name as “Nevermore.”_

Ed stopped walking. Not necessarily by choice, he felt it necessary to clarify, but because the tunnel that he had walked every night of every day of every week since his world had ended, seemed to have ended as well. Ended or cut off, Ed couldn't rightfully say, for there was no wall or door to stop him in his tracks, but an endless abyss of Hell, darker than nothingness and more sinister than a snarling beast, beckoning him forth in a mother’s lull with promises of well-deserved damnation. And from that expanse of all-encompassing emptiness, his own voice echoed back at him, distant and lost somewhere between the past and the present, Purgatory and Hell.

 _“We deserved it, and we deserve it again._ Look _at what we've done!”_

Only Ed could see nothing (did that make him wise?). Nothing but that cold emptiness that seemed so strangely welcoming, like a mother’s warm embrace, like a soft, sweet kiss, like waking up to a smiling face. Things Ed felt he was missing out on — not with a sort of childish yearning, but with the sort of stone-cold dread one gets when they’re late for an appointment. Like he had these things waiting for him, staying so still and patient, and he was preoccupied in this hallway by possibly the only escape he’d ever be offered: To step off these mind-numbingly creaky floorboards (which it had taken 769 of to reach this point, Ed had concluded) and let himself fall or float or swim to wherever that nothingness took him. Was there something in nothing? Or were those the words of a madman? Surely not, because madmen have no ears, and Ed certainly did — ears that were picking up on something through the maddening monotony of that faint and elusive dripping.

_“I loved her, Oswald. And you killed her.”_

_(Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the sound of the old man’s heart.)_

_“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us_ — _by that God we both adore — tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”_

_Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”_

Ed jumped.

It was after a very unpleasant awakening that Ed let himself relax into his mattress, soaked in sweat and tears and restricted by his twisted sheets. Such awakenings he’d been enduring for the past few weeks — or closer to a month, now, he couldn't tell — and invariably it was the same. The same nightmare, the same panic, the same startled jolting that rendered him conscious and dreadfully unhappy to be so. The same presence in the bed next to him, cold, unmoving, lifeless.

Such a familiar image the phrase “imaginary friend” brought to mind, but an image that was subject to change, Ed had learned over these past few or four or more weeks. An image commonly associated with a child — Ed understood that all too well. What he also understood was that he was no child, and there was undeniably an imaginary friend in his bed with him every time he scared himself awake. A friend in his bed, two in the corners, and one looming over him, around him, in him. His friends, or so to speak, for he doubted true friends antagonized someone as relentlessly and cruelly as his did to him.

 **_“Wakey wakey, Eddie,”_ ** one of them taunted as if on cue, the voice sparking inside of Ed, sending chills over every extremity, a sensation not unpleasant but most certainly unwelcome.

 _“Every day it’s always the same,”_ another one of his friends piped up, their voice tinny and almost artificial, carrying through the air from the corner like a putrid odor — the sound _was_ sickening, so Ed figured the analogy wasn't too far off. _“You’d think I’d have had the sense to sleep with someone with more…originality.”_

 **_“You would think,”_ ** the Other repeated mockingly, his too-loud and yet painfully nonexistent footsteps trailing off towards the foot of the bed. **_“Every day the same boring charade_ ** — **_scare yourself awake, stay stock still in your bed, wallow in your self-pity. Honestly, Eddie, I wanna have some_ ** **fun!”** he said with a dramatic flourish, slapping both hands on the bed and not disturbing it in the slightest.

“Leave me alone,” Ed growled, his voice hardly sounding like his own, deep and hoarse and _begging_ for mercy.

 _“I understand your fear. It comes from a place of love.”_ That was the second to last friend. She never said too much.

That just left the one lying adjacent to Ed in the bed, emitting cold, wet, reeking air — the one he could actually _feel,_ ironically, for it was the one born of all the half-empty pill bottles and caddies on his unorganized and cluttered nightstand. This one often did say too much, so it was a surprise for him to remain so silent at such an opportune time to poke fun at Ed’s ever-worsening mental state. He just stayed still, as still as Ed, but even quieter, even colder.

 _**“You've been rotting in that bed for two weeks,”** _ the Other said, all playful pretenses shed, all cold, threatening, brooding severity now. **_“I can’t even go out on my own because your stupid head is filled to_ ** **bursting** **_with that poison! Honestly, the one time I tried, I spent half an hour retching.”_ **

_“A damn shame, I’d say,”_ the second friend from the corner chimed in. _“What a waste.”_

 **_“Agreed,”_ ** the Other said with a disappointed sigh. **_“A waste of a pretty decent body. I could have had so much fun with that.”_ **

_“No love lost with his brain?”_

**_“His_ ** **brain,”** he scoffed, and Ed could hear him pacing, back and forth, back and forth, breaking his loop to charge over to Ed’s side of the bed, so close that Ed could almost make out his face — a reflection of his own. **_“His_ ** **brain** **_is a laughing stock!”_ ** the Other roared, jabbing a finger against Ed’s temple. He hardly moved with it. **_“He’s turned it to_ ** **mush** **_with all those drugs and all that alcohol. He can’t even get one complete thought out of his mouth. It’s all scrambled messages in there, jumbled sentences, obscure references to_ ** **poetry,** **_of all things.”_ **

_“I never took him to be a poet,” the second friend mused._

**_“He left you a cupcake with a bullet in it_** _—_ **_only a poet would do that.”_**

Through all these weeks, Ed had grown rather resigned to the treatment he received. It was expected — one of the many displeasures of waking up from those dreams of Hell, fantasies of a world almost better than his. One of his least favorite aspects of the waking world, however, was when his hallucinations — no, sorry, _friends_ — conspired against him. He couldn't get rid of them, couldn't tell them to leave when there were no bodies to walk out the door. How ridiculous would he seem screaming at an empty room? That’s why he hardly spoke. That, and — though he regretted to admit it — the Other was right: He couldn't get a complete thought out. His mind was an indiscernible haze of words that were not his own interwoven with the words he wanted to say. It was all poetry dashed by the mind of man. How ironically poetic.

 _“What do you suppose we should do with him?”_ the second friend spoke up, and upon forcing himself out of his own mind, Ed realized she and the Other were staring down at him. He could see them, though the rest of his dull world was blurry and unrecognizable. They stood out, stark against the nondescript backdrop they were cursed with: A face much like his own but stern and proud, and a face he’d known what seemed so long ago, pale and fair and framed by gorgeous red hair. His Someone who turned out not to be his Someone at all.

**_“Oh, I’d say he’s beyond help, now. That’s always the thing with junkies: You leave them to their own devices for too long and you come back to find there are no devices for them to be left to anymore.”_ **

_“So, what? We just let him die? That’s a mercy you hardly seem capable of.”_

**_“Oh, please, nothing so civil. We let him kill himself. Slowly. Destroy himself from the inside out. Does that seem a mercy more to your liking?”_ **

_“He strangled me. I couldn't breathe. And I had to listen to him monologue about how dearly he loved me. The mercy to my liking would be for him to die the most painful death we can manage…But I suppose this will suffice.”_

They spoke of it frequently, their desired methods of killing him. So much so he was hardly fazed by it anymore. Admittedly, it did hurt — just a little bit, just a small pang in his heart where the understanding that no friend should plot your murder brewed on a low flame and the truth of his situation lay undiscussed. He was dying. They all knew it. They joked about it, of course, but deep down in some secret place where Ed hadn't lost all sensibility, he knew they were terrified. Deep down in that secret place, he could feel it.

And he was terrified too.

“You two always were so quick to give up hope,” another voice came, a clearer voice, a hitherto unheard voice, the one Ed had been so impatiently waiting for, and hearing it made his eyes burn with unshed tears.

He rolled his head to the side — an action that was far too difficult — and let his eyes settle on his soggy companion, covered head to toe in aquatic grime and muck, every inch of them so blatantly _lifeless_ that it never failed to make Ed physically ill. The only part of their pale, slimy, drenched body that retained any hint of life was their eyes, as sharp and piercing as ever, as green as the pieces of seaweed that clung to their once impeccable suit.

“Please,” Ed began, his voice breaking pitifully around a poorly contained whimper, “why can’t…you…jus’ go away?”

The final friend (the only one Ed truly felt he could call a _friend)_ smiled a venomous smile, their gaze so obviously pitying that Ed knew his skin should be crawling, but no part of him seemed attentive enough to react accordingly.

“Oh, Ed,” his friend said with a sigh. “There’s really nowhere else for me to go. You've already killed me!”

Ed doubted there would ever be another set of words that could make him sob so suddenly. Deep, pathetic, wailing cries, cries only a dying man could produce, cries of a man who wanted a second chance at life, wanted to change things, to relive things. A man with so much remorse he could drown in it.

It was real, this world. Agonizingly so. No dream within a dream, no reality too meta for its own good. It was real and Ed, though surrounded by his friends, felt lonelier than he ever had. Eternal torment. Well-deserved damnation. Only a dying man would accept that fate.

And so Ed did.

With open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First part of this series is _done,_ finally. I kind of rushed through this, so if there are any mistakes, I apologize.
> 
> The chapter titles are from "Nightmares" by All Time Low.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not that talented, so that wonderful fear riddle can be found here: https://warriorpoetwisdom.com/2015/03/13/the-riddle-of-fear/


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